A Price To Pay
by troubadour12
Summary: It was a small thing, an indirect favor, done without concern for the other. But his pride won't let him forget it. And his bitterness won't let him get away with it. *Sequel to "Debt of Honor"*


**A Price To Pay**

_A 39 Clues Fanfic_

_Summary:_

_It was a small thing, an indirect favor, done without concern for the other._

_But his pride won't let him forget it._

_And his bitterness won't let him get away with it._

_

* * *

_

There was something about the way the world turned that made things more complicated than they should have been. You didn't know where you would end up, only aware of that invisible line between falling and rising, but not before you receive either of the two fates.

These were the thoughts that ran through a contemplative Kabra's mind on an idyllic afternoon. Maybe it was the fact that he had decided not to go on with the attacks against the Tomas, thus saving him from the necessary paperwork and the planning. Not that he didn't enjoy his job – just that there were times when you had to remember the parts of yourself that needed rest, and the sections of your brain which were more rational than you could ever think they were, and the spirit that would not always be enough to keep body and mind strong.

In his hand was a dainty-stemmed wine glass, filled with intoxicating drink which was the color of amber. A gift from a newly-recruited family of Lucians who were rich and eager to please their leader, in the hopes of receiving favor. Ian was willing to give them that, of course, but the way it always was, the favor would not last and the family would soon fall into disgrace. He could not risk giving attention for free, lest the other members might think them better. He had to keep their family in power, and as long as he was there to lead, they would follow. After all, was he not the one to rid them of the heretical Isabel and the passive Vikram? Two leaders as cruel and as dictatorial as the ones before, but squandering the wealth of the clans on their own pithy interests. There had been a clamor against them, and he and Natalie had to save themselves, their name. They disposed as kindly as they could of their parents, and he took the throne, with his sister assigned to the intricacies of protocol, offense, and weapons.

Ian was not about to regret a single thing he had done. True, they were their parents. But he was a Lucian from the noble Kabra lineage and had to do what was best for the family. It was for everyone's interests, and it saved his parents from what would otherwise have been a messy revenge.

He'd had a taste of vengeance himself on the first few years of his and his sister's taking over. The scars hadn't quite healed yet. Things took a while to settle down, until the Lucians became the starving, bloodthirsty hounds they were under his care, willing to do what he asked. Although he knew that they harbored treacherous thoughts when he was not around.

Ian took a sip, more out of habit than actual pleasure. Fine wines were drunk daily, sumptuous food on the table, luxurious things that he'd soon gotten tired of when he had understood that all was his. Natalie reveled in it, drank it in, absorbed every last atom of the feeling into her selfish, though clever, core. He spent, but it was for the sake of appearance, to assure his fellow Lucians that he was not descending to poverty. Simplicity was not an option when you were the role model.

He wondered it if would be so bad to pour the liquid outside the window. He hated pretending, had enough of it in his younger years, had grown so used to being someone else that the slightest reminder of it made him want to hurt others.

After a few seconds he stood up, tipped the contents of the glass and watched them flow down, and set it on the table.

Ian checked his watch. A quarter to three, nearly time for the meeting.

The glass rolled down onto the floor and smashed into a thousand, glinting pieces.

* * *

Hamilton Holt had his suspicions. If they had been any weaker, he would not have gone at all. If they had been any stronger, he would have come armed and caused the same pain that his enemy would willingly inflict on him. But as neither was the case, he went alone, trying not to make it any obvious to his fellow Tomas.

He had abandoned the purple training suit long ago and replaced it with a customary blue shirt, white pants. His hair was still slicked back into something resembling a shark's fin, sharp and high, trimmed to a point. Being the Branch Leader after all the mocking, verbal abuse, and cruel jokes, Hamilton was well aware of the mud beneath the surface. It was the same mud anyone would be willing to stir, and he knew that no amount of shedding his past – like the suit – would ever clear him in the eyes of his branch.

He'd talked to Ian an hour ago. The latter had agreed to his terms, even going so far as to declare a year-long truce. He knew that Ian had excellent negotiation skills, but somehow, he hadn't been concentrating on the arrangements. He didn't understand the Cobra, never did, but this meeting would be an opening for him to ask the questions. Questions which, through the years, had built up and had demanded answers. Today would be the day that perhaps some of them would truly leave his mind.

"Hammer, be careful," his sister, Reagan, said as he climbed into his car. He glanced at her and saw something in her eyes which told him that she knew what he was about to do.

"I told you not to eavesdrop," he said, as casual as he could make it. He started up the car.

"I didn't eavesdrop," Reagan said. She raised her chin with defiance, this girl who had been so compassionate in the Hunt. "It's only a simple matter of controlling every correspondence, whether the people involved know it or not. How do you think I obtained information on Crowther's plans if I didn't keep track?"

Hamilton shook his head. He should have known better. "Well, try to keep it to yourself. Madison would only be a hindrance, and Mom and Dad sure wouldn't like it."

She nodded. He saluted her and left headquarters, having prearranged with the guard to open the gates and suspend the electricity running through them. He knew the defenses by heart, and it wouldn't do to charge out with no precautionary measures taken.

His wireless receiver crackled with static.

"Hammer?"

He recognized the voice and wondered what she would have to say.

"Yes, Reagan?"

"Don't worry, you've got the upper hand."

The call ended and he continued driving.

_What had she meant by that?_

* * *

Ian was just debating whether or not to leave the shattered glass on the carpet when Hamilton was ushered in. He decided to leave it; the glass reflected rainbow patterns on book-filled mahogany shelves and walls papered with the Kabras' crest. Besides, he wanted no interruption. This was a private business, if secret, that required only the attention of a small circle – his and Hamilton's. No one else.

"Take a seat," he said, gesturing at the armchair just in front of his desk. His guest hesitated, suspecting a trap, and Ian could not blame him for thinking that way. Had things been different than they were right now, he _would _have set a trap. But they weren't and so he knew there was nothing to meet Hamilton's hesitation, only a conversation with someone who had owed him in the past.

"Are you going to let it stay there?" Hamilton asked, eyeing the glass scattered a few feet away from where he sat, as if they could slip through his shoe and embed themselves into his foot, drawing blood and eventual death.

"Here are the papers you need to sign. Read them thoroughly." Ian handed the documents to Hamilton, who forgot the glass for a moment.

"'There shall be truce for a year between the two branches'," he read aloud. "Are you sure about this?"

Ian chuckled. "Ah, Holt. You amuse me. Where one of your branch members would have leapt so readily to have, you still suspect. But to answer your question, yes, I am sure."

"And why, in the name of Gideon Cahill, are you doing this, Ian? Do you think us so dumb?"

"Yes, the Tomas are dumb," Ian replied bluntly, looking out the window. "But that is only half the reason."

"'Half of the reason?" Hamilton was removing the cap of his pen then replacing it, not quite ready to sign the papers just yet. Also, it was a good stress buffer for what Ian had just said of him and his branch. _That snake, _he thought, _has never known a barren time in his life. _Even the room affirmed his bitter thoughts, the marble carpeted with rugs of Persian hand and make, the antiques expensive and authentic, the furnishings undoubtedly from other lands. Ian's clothes screamed it, in his face, and Hamilton did not appreciate the reminder of how, though they now had the same status in their branches, the Cobra was still far above him and ready to spite him for it.

"I still owe you, Holt, and a Kabra does not leave a debt unpaid." He turned. "If this is a way to repay it, I would take it."

"Your pride," Hamilton stated.

"My pride."

"Well, Kabra," Hamilton said, "You pulled through. I think I'll take this as payment."

He signed the papers as Ian watched on. Then he stood. "I guess this meeting's over."

"How is she?" Ian asked, not removing his gaze from the documents.

Hamilton's eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Last we talked, she was fine," he said. "Off to do some research in the sea."

"You know, to tell the truth," Ian said, finally looking at his rival's face, "You were entirely too trustworthy."

Without a single nervous twitch, he raised a gun from his pocket. Hamilton paled, but he didn't show fear. Only calculated the possibilities of escape.

"I can only say I'm sorry, Hammer, but my debt has been repaid. Now is the time to do away with it. Those documents will still be effective, so don't worry." He unlatched the safety back and aimed it at the young man just in front of him.

A gunshot rang through the air, the signal of the end of a life.

* * *

_Perhaps it is time I began a new life, _Ian thought, looking at the corpse on the floor, his blood staining the carpet, bits of glass stuck on the hand.

Shame, really, that the wine was wasted and the cup shattered.

But, to be honest, poison had never agreed with him.

* * *

"Did you have to kill him before I arrived?"

"Yes, of course. A Vesper is not to be treated lightly."

"Still! I missed the action!"

"You would have died otherwise," Ian said, raising an eyebrow at the new arrival.

"They got the whole thing down," Hamilton said, looking at his impostor lying senseless on the floor. Bile was rising to his throat, but he pushed it back, determined to match the calm expression on the Kabra's face. True, it had been a necessary death. But he couldn't shake off the feeling of disgust at the sight of a corpse and that he, somehow, was a part of what had befallen it.

"Except for the hair," Ian pointed out. The impostor's hair was a shock of spiky blond hair, an imitation of the hairstyle that Hamilton wore for a month then had tired of. Just their luck that he had reverted to his original style a week ago.

"Well, Kabra, consider your debt paid. Have you taken the antidote?"

Ian shrugged. "As soon as I detected the taste of poison in the wine, I had the antidote drunk in no time. I'll have to investigate the Wests as well. They sent me the wine."

"Others might be looking to do the same thing." Hamilton peered at the documents. "At least he made a decent replica of my signature."

"A dangerous world we live in. But I don't consider that authentic, after all it was a forgery."

Hamilton signed another batch of papers that Ian gave him, while the Kabra shredded the ones signed by the impostor.

"We'll have to watch and wait, Holt," Ian said.

"We _are _watching and waiting, Kabra," Hamilton replied.

"They're after Amy and Dan Cahill now. That's not something we can allow."

An old man entered, barely a hint of surprise in his features when he saw two Hamilton Holts, one dead, the other alive. He picked up the corpse. "I'll clean up, sir."

"Thank you, Barker. We'll be leaving in the morning."

The servant bowed. "Of course."

"We will meet again, I think, Holt. No, don't shake my hand; you don't have to blamed for this. He was my enemy, and I alone will face the consequences. Do not dirty your hands."

Hamilton frowned but nodded his understanding.

"Oh, and another thing, Holt. Watch over the Cahills. I will not be able to," Ian said. He checked his watch. "You'll have to go."

When the room was empty, and all that was left were the furniture, the bloodstained carpet, and the pieces of glass, Ian took out his pistol. He wiped it free of any fingerprints, placed it in a plastic bag, and carefully laid it on the floor.

He didn't enjoy killing, and he tried to make up for his sin by respectfully burying the dead. Every weapon he'd used was left as a marker and, though foolish, he kept them. He had to be reminded of how much blood was in his hands, so that he wouldn't kill as carelessly and as viciously like he had done before. The weapons were clues for the police that would somehow trace them back to him, and he would face the gravity of his crimes. But he took them, despite feeling the heavy weight of his conscience, and felt an everlasting sting at the sight of all the weapons, labeled with the times and dates they were used, the lives they had ended. _He _had ended.

Ian had repaid his debt of honor. But somehow, someday, he had to fully free himself of the mounting, infinitely greater price he had to pay, to the dead now buried, to the families now broken, and to the justice never served.

* * *

On the 13th of May, Ian Kabra's mansion was vacated. A new family moved in and changed every aspect of the house to suit their eclectic tastes. Most importantly, they did away with the beautiful Persian carpet in the former owner's study, saying that it smelled suspiciously like rust, and it didn't fit the overall design anyway.

A young woman bought the carpet. She had liked it and believed that she had seen it somewhere before. As she walked away with her purchase, the store clerks followed her with ill-disguised admiration.

They later said that she was so beautiful, a lovely little thing, with coffee-colored skin, silky black hair, and amber eyes. When they looked up her name in the register, they saw that she had paid for the carpet with her credit card, and that she was Natalie Kabra.

* * *

_**Well…I could have done this better, but it was pretty much all I could think of. A oneshot, obviously, though this is a sequel to **_**Debt of Honor**_** (which is also a oneshot). If you'd like to, you can read the other one, but you don't need to have read it to understand this one.**_

_**It seems I have a knack for confusing my readers. There's only one thing I will explain and one thing only - the rest you should ponder. They say an effective author never truly reveals his/her secrets, and though I'm essentially breaking a cardinal rule, I'm not changing a thing except for some typographical errors. If you weren't confused, good. If you were confused, well, I'm flattered. :)**_

_**A review takes only minutes as compared to the hours spent writing stories for you to enjoy. You'd make an author very happy if you'd say what you thought of the story and help the author improve.**_

_**Have a good day,**_

_**Troubadour12**_

_**P.S.**_

_**I see that Joelle8 and Another Artist are still active, but where have music4evah, FoxFace Zero, psychoticbookgirl, LucianWriter77, Paite-chan, Silicon2123 and Sun Daughter gone? I used to see daily updates from them, and now I don't. **_

_**Ah…bypassing the fact that I've been absent for quite some time myself. **_


End file.
